


Time After Time

by Enisy



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Pollen, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24718861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enisy/pseuds/Enisy
Summary: Of all the things he had dreaded about this expedition,getting roofied by ancient furniturehad to be near the bottom of the list.
Relationships: Illyria/Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Comments: 8
Kudos: 21
Collections: Heat Fic Summer 2020





	Time After Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CorinaLannister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorinaLannister/gifts).



The portal opened to a great colonnade, with room enough for ten thousand souls and a grandiose, tight-lipped, mystical air. Even so, it was just a pale shadow of its former glory. Vermin crawled between the fallen stones, and the bases of pillars were covered in scree.

“Vahla Ha’nesh,” said Wesley, wrapping his tongue around it like an incantation. “What are we doing here?”

Illyria didn’t answer him. It was just as well, because his question should have used a different pronoun. _W_ _hat am_ I _doing here?_ He didn’t need to hear what Illyria had come to Vahla Ha’nesh for: that was obvious. This temple was to Illyria... what Illyria was to Wesley.

A house of mourning.

“I must be the first Watcher to step foot into an abode of the Old Ones,” he said conversationally. “Not once but twice. Even the sketches in the Watchers’ Diaries were purely speculative, as far as I know. Ah, yes, the Council would have loved this place – they would have gone over every nook and cranny with a fine-tooth comb.” He scoffed. “Personally, I’d start with a vacuum cleaner.”

“Spike has compared your snoring to a _vacuum cleaner_ ,” Illyria said helpfully, supplying her one and only reference point for the device. She was strolling ahead of him, determined to cross the entire colonnade, though there was nothing on the other end. “Do not touch that,” she warned, just as Wesley was attempting to peer under the lid of a stone tabernacle. He inhaled a lungful of dust for his efforts.

“Never mind the vacuum cleaner,” he said, coughing. “This place needs a Trl’derf demon with a pepper shaker tied to each nostril.”

“That would not be advisable. Trl’derf demons’ mucous expulsion is known to generate small black holes.”

“That’s kind of my point.” Wesley dabbed at his forehead with a sleeve. He didn’t know why, but he was feeling a bit light-headed.

“A Trl’derf demon has 104 nostrils,” said Illyria. “You do not possess that many pepper shakers.”

Without realizing it, Wesley had sunk down on a leveled pillar, which seemed to be disintegrating further before his eyes. Illyria stopped in her tracks to look at him.

“Is it just me,” he panted, “or has it gotten really warm in here?”

His companion lowered herself onto her haunches. She tilted her head in that curious, alien manner and surveyed his face, like a customer assessing their newest purchase for damage. “You have breathed in purple sand,” she surmised.

“Purple sand?”

“It was a chemical stimulant used by my Qwa Ha Xahn for certain rituals. Its effect will last up to an hour.”

A brief pause ensued.

“Oh,” said Wesley like the intellectual he was, “goody.”

Of all the things he had dreaded about this expedition, _getting roofied_ _by ancient furniture_ had to be near the bottom of the list.

“Physical yearnings are shackles tying humans to the mud and dirt from whence they came,” said Illyria, who was still looking at him with interest. “I will help you through them.”

“No,” Wesley keened, but he was already hard, hips bucking toward her outstretched hand. Her armor faded, and it was Fred’s naked body kneeling before him, with her small waist and her pert nipples and a birthmark on the right hip. “Oh God.”

“You and Fred never did this,” said Illyria in a strange tone of voice. She was right, of course, although Wesley had certainly _thought_ about it, many times, in many permutations. “But she has other memories.”

Without further ado, Illyria climbed onto his lap, straddling him. She kissed along his jawline up to his ear with uncharacteristic tenderness, and gave his earlobe a small nip. His skin was on fire, and her mouth a cooling unguent where it touched him. Meanwhile, Wesley was already unbuckling his pants to help her along. He couldn’t think straight; he wasn’t gentle or caring or attentive. He barely had the presence of mind to test her with his fingers, before he pinned her to the floor and pushed in. Illyria’s eyes widened, like she’d just had a life-changing revelation, and she made a small noise in the back of her throat.

Given his compromised state, Wesley supposed he should have felt exploited, but the opposite was true. _He_ was asking something of _Illyria_. This was his only way of interfacing with the world nowadays, like the business end of a claw machine, pivoting and grasping and dropping, then aiming for the same toy, grasping it again and dropping it again. Rinse and repeat. Pathetic.

“Fuck,” he said, driving into her harder. Illyria’s eyes could not be mistaken for Fred’s – they were blue, cold and opaque, the most inhuman part of her appearance – but right now they were gazing at him in a way Fred’s once had, for the short duration of their courtship. Suddenly he couldn’t bear to look at his dead love’s face; he pressed his face against her neck, his teeth finding light purchase in the skin as he sucked, leaving wet, dark, deliberate marks. Illyria let out a moan. “Fuck,” Wesley said again.

Her hair was soaked with his tears. They stood out against the blue strands, each one round and sparkling, like beads on the curtain leading into a tarot tent. Illyria could manipulate time; would she read his future, if he asked? As Wesley traced the hollow of her back, he knew that his tarot cards would reveal The Fool when flipped, each and every one.

“This feels nice,” Illyria said – not _I find this pleasing_ or _I do not object to_ _your_ _attentions_ but just three words, a curiously Fred-like construction, which made him moan and thrust into her again with wanton need. She made a surprised sound, almost a mewl, and wrapped her legs around his waist. It was enough. It was enough. It had to be enough.

When Wesley rolled away from Illyria, the effect of the purple sand had lessened but not dissipated. The ruins heaved a sigh, scattering flurries of dust in the dry, choked air. Illyria placed a hand behind his head, as if he were dead or dying. Another hand on his cheek. “Wesley.”

“Illyria,” he replied. Grasping, grasping. “What are we doing here?”

Illyria looked at him with her glassy stare. Softly but matter-of-factly, not a hint of Fred left, she said: “We are waiting for the hour to pass.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [enisywrites](https://enisywrites.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Come on over if you want to drop me a prompt or a question, or to just say hi!


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